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“It’s a hard pass, Gabriel,” I say icily. “Get him the fuck out of here.”
My brother’s brow furrows. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. We’re not taking him on.”
“Like hell we’re not. Five million a year? And, unlike a growing number of our clients, Ansel’s business is actually above board.”
“I wasn’t aware the German fucking Mafia was considered ‘above board’ these days.”
Gabriel rolls his eyes. “There was a split, a few years back. Ansel took his inheritance and disowned the rest of his family. His little brother, Yann, is running the organization now. Ansel himself is totally legit. He runs a securities trading house now.”
“I don’t give a fuck if he’s the Pope and curing goddamn cancer. We’re not taking him on as a client. End of fucking discussion?—”
“It’s not a discussion at all,” Gabriel fires back, his jaw clenched. “Taylor and I have—come on! Alistair!”
But I’m already out of his office and storming my way toward the elevators, loosening my tie.
I have a practice bag in the sub-basement to annihilate, because if I don’t, I’m going to march into the conference room and destroy Ansel’s fucking face instead.
It’s not jealousy.
It’s pure fucking wrath.
Of the three of us—Gabriel, Taylor, and me—it’s usually Gabriel who stays at the office the latest, burning the midnight oil. That’s not to say Taylor and I aren’t also essentially married to our jobs, but we can extricate ourselves from this place when we have to. Taylor prefers to adjourn to her office at her apartment for night-time work. And I…especially recently…often find myself needing to take a break to unwind in what most would call self-destructive and violent ways before diving back into work somewhere around eleven or twelve at night. At home.
But tonight, I’m here.
I’m not the only one, either.
Stretching, I push my laptop aside and stand from my desk. At the interior-facing wall of windows in my office, I look down into the pit, where the only light still on is the one in Eloise’s cubicle.
She’s all but buried in her mountains of busywork, courtesy of yours truly. But as I look down on her now, I’m not as pleased with myself as I was a week ago about handing her all of that.
I dumped the work on her before because of, well, what she once did to me. Then the episode in my office happened, followed by a week of cold shoulders and silent treatment, followed by her unusual and downright suspiciously cheerful about-turn.
I mean the woman brought me another fucking chai latte with two shots of espresso today, unprompted and unannounced, then smiled and told me to have a nice day.
I threw the latte away because I figured it was laced with laxatives or poison, but I’m beginning to think it really was just a kind gesture.
Flip, the switch turns on. Flip, it turns off. Flip, just kidding! It’s back on!
Clap on, clap off.
It’s impossible to keep up.
My brow furrows as I stare at the mountain of work crap I’ve all but buried her in. For what? To satisfy my own sense of revenge? If so, what the fuck does that say about me? I mean, much as I hate to admit it, Gabriel’s right: what happened at Knightsblood was ten fucking years ago.
Yes, there are things I saw that I’ll never unsee. There was her cruelty. But fuck, I was cruel right back to her.
But I’m not that boy anymore, and she’s not that girl.
Maybe it’s time to let the past stay where it is.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when I buzz her cubicle from my office phone: that I’m simply offering an olive branch. Let’s ignore the fact that we’re the only two people here, and that my cock is at least sixty-percent hard, and that I’m already fantasizing about bending her across my desk, Massimo Carveli’s wife or not.
Fuck. This is a very, very bad idea.
“Hello?” she answers, confused.
